


Research

by TakeMeOut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Face-Sitting, Light BDSM, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22211635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TakeMeOut/pseuds/TakeMeOut
Summary: She’s on her third cleaning visit by the time Sherlock finally notices her. John, driven to distraction by the chaos that Sherlock seems to generate simply by existing, hired the woman in an attempt to alleviate what he suspects are becoming extremely insanitary living conditions.There is a woman who is not who she says she is. A woman who wants to find something out about Sherlock.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s), Sherlock Holmes/Reader
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

She’s on her third cleaning visit by the time Sherlock finally notices her. John, driven to distraction by the chaos that Sherlock seems to generate simply by existing, has hired the woman in an attempt to alleviate what he suspects are becoming extremely insanitary living conditions. 

Sherlock is frowning at three short, incomprehensible words pinned up on the wall with the obsessive single-mindedness he brings to a difficult case, while John is scouring the internet. 

She’s wiping carefully round a collection of glass flasks on the kitchen table. “It’s Sona,” she says, glancing up briefly as she navigates a particularly ominous-looking petri dish. John is frowning in puzzlement, so she elaborates. “It’s an international auxiliary language from the 1930s, but was very little used even at the time.” 

Sherlock’s face cycles rapidly from intense concentration on the wall, to surprise at her presence, to absolute focus on what she’s saying. “It’s not a complete sentence, just fragments - _ru_ means go, and is probably an imperative. _Man_ is wait, and _rusu_ is moving water - probably a river.”

Something evidently unlocks in Sherlock’s brain, and he dashes out of the door, gathering John and his coat and scarf along the way. By the time they return, she’s gone. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

By her fifth visit, it’s apparent that Sherlock is watching her. On the sixth, he is alone, sitting with preternatural stillness in his usual armchair. She suspects he’s engineered the fact that John isn’t here. 

“You’re not just a cleaner,” he says without preamble, and it’s not a question. She raises an eyebrow, and he waves a hand dismissively. “I’m not making generalisations about the intelligence level of an average cleaner. Your hands show none of the signs of regular cleaning work - callouses, dermatitis, broken nails - and while you’re perfectly competent, you’re consciously thinking about your actions instead of performing them automatically as an experienced manual worker would.”

She steps closer, then, so that he’s looking up at her. “So what else have you deduced?” she asks. “I can tell many things about you,” he says softly. He doesn’t elaborate, and she guesses he’s too frustrated at failing to reach a conclusion about her to verbalise his genius as he usually does. “But you want to know something,” he says. “About me.” 

She’s banking on the fact she’s piqued his interest, and decides to take a risk then. His face remains expressionless as she slides astride him until her body is barely touching his. “Shall I tell you what I’ve observed so far about you, then?” she asks. 

He makes a small, noncommittal noise of assent in his throat. “You’re afraid of boredom more than anything. You have habitual ways of dealing with that - most notably that you put yourself repeatedly in danger for the satisfaction of proving your own intellect. There are old track marks on your arms, too, so you’re not averse to more recreational solutions to the problem when you’ve run out of other options. 

“Both of these tactics have two things in common. They bring you pleasure, that much is obvious, but there’s a less apparent motivation too - that both of them are about loss of control. Pleasure and loss of control - there’s an obvious outlet for that combination, but you won’t habitually indulge in it. Perhaps you never have. So why not?” She shifts slightly, and her body rubs briefly against his cock. His hands don’t flinch from their position on the armrests as he waits for her to go on. 

“You’re clearly not asexual, as the very slight erection you’re keeping in check - with a remarkable level of self-control, I should add - shows. So what is it? You have no interest in society’s expectations of your behaviour, so most likely it’s that you think you’ll leave yourself vulnerable by allowing intimacy. A chink in that famous armour.' He’s watching her intently, silently, as if she’s a fundamental clue to a difficult case that requires his full focus. "I could be an enemy. An assassin. Except that I’ve had many opportunities to kill you already, and I haven’t. 

“Perhaps a spy, then. But everyone who knows your work is aware just how fraught with risk taking on the great Sherlock Holmes is. Apprehension and arousal are easily confused even to the trained observer, but you’re close enough to me to be able to tell the difference. If nothing else you can smell it, but you’ll already have noticed the other involuntary signs. Still, I can make allowances for your doubt - I don’t have to tie you up so firmly you couldn’t free yourself if you felt the need.”

He swallows once and asks, simply: “Where have you got your information from?”

She smiles, running her hands into his hair and lightly scratching his scalp with her fingernails. “I’m good at reading people. Very good, in fact. I find it brings a whole range of benefits to me, and the people around me.” He doesn’t reply, his face remaining absolutely impassive. “So. Time for you to decide whether you’ll take me up on my offer.” He doesn’t blink as he answers. “You haven’t made me an offer.” 

Her hands still. She raises an eyebrow, and there’s a long silence. Eventually Sherlock’s head tilts back fractionally, exposing his long, pale neck. “You were wrong about one thing.” 

The second eyebrow joins the first. “Oh?”

He pauses for a moment. “The restraint. I need it to be tight. Inescapable.” Her eyes narrow slightly in amusement, and when she leans forward to kiss him, he opens his lips to her as his eyes roll shut in submission.


	2. Chapter 2

Underneath his dark shirt, the skin on Sherlock’s stomach is almost indecently warm for a man with such a stony demeanour. She undresses him piece by piece, smoothing her hand across each area of his body as it’s revealed. He watches her with a focused intensity that takes on a darker note when she orders him to lie down on the bed. 

She feels his cock harden in rapid pulses beneath her as she straddles him and fastens his wrists tightly to the bedframe with his own scarf. Once he’s secured, she lets him watch her undress; his face is impassive but his pupils are dilated. 

Draping herself across him, she kisses him unhurriedly for long luscious minutes, his tongue sliding slowly against hers as he maps the contours of her mouth. His need is evident in the way his open mouth follows hers as she shifts on top of him, his long neck straining upwards to reach her. 

She sits back to look at him, feeling his cock twitch beneath her. He’s particularly beautiful, she thinks, in a strangely indefinable way. His body is classical, all hard alabaster planes and more muscle definition than might reasonably be expected of someone who intersperses frenetic activity with long periods of physical inertia. 

But his face, that’s harder to pin down. There’s an almost snake-like blankness to it, at times. He’s inaccessible. Supremely unavailable. Perhaps that’s what she finds so attractive. 

He’s waiting, and she wraps one hand lightly around his throat. “Tell me what you want, Sherlock.”

Sherlock is silent for a full minute. When he speaks, his voice has a slight hoarseness. “I think you know what I want.”

Her eyes drift up to his hands. It’s a shame, she thinks, that those elegant violin-player’s fingers are out of action. It’ll have to be his mouth, then. 

She straddles his face and his eyes widen imperceptibly as he realises what she intends. She lowers herself gently onto his mouth, bracing herself against the bedframe, and he exhales softly and shuts his eyes as his lips and tongue begin to explore her with a skill that suggests this isn’t new to him. 

By the time she comes against his mouth, he’s so hard - his cock straining upwards - that she suspects he’s aching and uncomfortable. She shifts away from him and sees a brief, uncharacteristic moment of panic flash across his face. Perhaps he thinks she’s going to leave him like this. He doesn’t even try to hide his relief and pleasure when she slides astride his hips and sinks slowly down onto him. 

His self-control quickly abandons him, and he braces his feet wide to be able to thrust up into her. His head rolls backwards into the pillow, exposing a delicious expanse of pale neck that she can’t resist biting. The pain pushes him over the edge and he thrusts once and stills as he comes, a deep rumble travelling up from his chest to emerge as a guttural, animal groan from his mouth. It’s an irresistible sound, and she grinds down onto him and follows him into climax. 

She stays on top of him, his cock still inside her, as they catch their breath. Once he begins to soften, she lifts regretfully off him and begins to pick at the knots binding him. 

When his hands are free, Sherlock pushes sweat-dampened curls out of his eyes and sits up, rubbing his wrists. “Did you find out what you wanted to know?” 

She smiles, but doesn’t answer. He watches her dress with his usual composure, and when she’s ready she sits on the bed next to him and runs a finger over the teeth marks on his neck. “Call me the next time you get bored.” 

His smile is almost indetectable. “What if the flat needs cleaning?” 

She hits him hard across the face. He tastes the faint metallic taste of blood in his mouth, but her eyes are amused. “Clean the damned flat yourself. Till next time, Mr Holmes.”


End file.
